Fragments in the aftermath
by Victine Shadow
Summary: A semi-sequel to On the Edge - Silver may be safe, but it doesn't mean that either party may feel whole again. Mastershipping (Lance/Silver), former one-sided Preciousmetalshipping
1. Chapter 1

As per request, I've decided to do a follow-up to 'On the Edge'. Enjoy!

* * *

Yet another little trainer here to have their dreams crushed. Lance folds his arms with a sigh and sardonic smile. Mundane, regular, repetitive. He sends the kid packing and is about to turn back into his own chambers when Karen enters, stroking her Umbreon's fur (as always).

"Don't tell me Will's engaged a latecomer," Lance growls, keeping his back to her.

"Fear not." He can imagine her smiling in her silky-smooth manner, not the least bit fooled by her demeanor. The gentle upturn of lips and purring voice hide a mind of manipulations and the macabre, and a heart as dark as her Umbreon's pelt. "That's all for the day."

He reminds himself to maintain a facade of calm control. "So?" She will never come to him without good reason - that is, without a reason that brings in good material for her consideration and gossip.

"That boy - "

"His name is Silver."

"That you're keeping in your quarters..." she trails off suggestively.

"Is none of your concern." He grits his teeth as he is acutely reminded of the sharp stabbing feeling he tends to get around his wonderful colleague.

"I've never seen you take such an interest in any young trainer like that, not even that funny androgynous little blonde." She pauses, appearing to ponder to herself for a moment, before adding, "Unless - well, _honestly_, Lance, I thought you had better - "

"It's not what you think - or would like to imply," he tells her, irritation increasing by the second, and not even bothering to hide the ire in his words.

Fortunately, she still has regard for her own neck, and ends the exchange with an amused, "Very well then. I'll leave the two of you in peace, then."

He releases a hiss of frustration the moment she's closed the door behind her. In truth, it's neither her presence nor her opinion that needles him - he has never given a fig about what that slimy bitch thought, and he does not worry about tales being whispered about him behind his back - rather, it's that infuriating boy that frustrates him. He's seen plenty of introverted people, plenty of damaged, defensive wrecks, plenty of weary, limp wretches, but Silver is in a league of his own. He's not said more than ten words since his arrival, despite Lance's endless questioning, and simply give him a look of exhaustion and hollowness - the look of someone who has given up. Lance would be more at ease if he snapped at him, railed at him for saving his life, or broke down in shock, weeping. But no; all he has managed to do is squeeze the occasionally "yes" or "no" or a nod, with a weak whispered "thank you" that both of them know means nothing to each other.

That sort of nihilistic defeatist would usually only spark Lance's disgust. He'd not look twice at a pathetic creature such as that. But this one -

He hates the way the little redhead has some sort of - 'hold', if it must be called thus - over him. He despises both himself and the boy (mostly himself - he should know better, he is the responsible adult, after all, and for crying out loud, he's a typically manipulative extremist willing to resort to murder), yet there's nothing he can do. He can't turn the boy out, knowing full well what he might try next; but on the other hand he has no idea how to handle him. It's plain to anyone with a pair of eyes that Silver's ever so deeply in love with Gold, and Gold is as blind as a bat. And he - the magnificent champion Lance - is quite, or rather far too much fond of this hopeless kid.

He heaves another sigh and leans against the doorframe of his quarters, watching the serene sleeping figure of Silver, who, for a brief second, appears to be no different from any other dreaming teenager.

* * *

It is a peculiar sensation.

He can't yet figure out whether it's a dream or not. He recalls the dreamy feeling, the strange sensation of blood actually flowing out of his slit arteries, lying on the cold bathroom tiles and waiting, waiting...but the darkness never came. Everything became fuzzier, his vision clouded, and he vaguely remembers being picked up by someone and cradled in their arms...Lance, it was Lance, of course. And then soaring in the air, to somewhere far, far away, before being set down...and then he finally slipped into unconsciousness, though he knows he tasted disappointment on his own tongue before blacking out.

Of course. There are fools, there are failures, and there's him. Someone who can't even end his own life.

He doesn't intend to end his life now. He doesn't intend on doing anything. All of him, not just his bandaged wrists, feel numb. His mind is blank. He curls his fingers, gripping the sheets, trying to summon up a sensation to his empty chest, but failing.

He closes his eyes, letting himself drift off. When he wakes, from the corner of his peripheral vision, he notes the lean champion watching him from the doorway. He turns his head on the pillow, curious, only to see Lance slink away silently.

"Please," he mutters, then stops. It's futile. Besides, he's not the one who can make demands here. Lance isn't obliged to do anything for him - for that matter, why has Lance saved him and brought him here? It's so - out of the blue. They're not even really friends, are they? Acquaintances, that's all. Even if Lance seems fairly interested, and perhaps even appreciative of him.

He begins to wonder about Gold, and of course Crystal, as well. Gold and Crystal. That's how he'll have to refer to them from now onwards. Gold and Crystal. He expects to feel a bitterness starting to well up in him, and a dull ache resurrecting, but, strangely, he can't feel anything.

Why? He's thought that he would never be able to get over it, that he would always feel torn into pieces, yet - nothing.

"What?"

He starts in surprise at the sound of Lance's voice. How is it possible that this fellow can hear his feeble mumble from yards away? Does his connection with his Pokemon also extend to the thoughts of people? He watches the redhead looming over him, but his features express no more than concern. "Are you alright?"

Silver nods.

Lance's eyes don't leave his face, and, in spite of always having disliked the gaze of others, Silver doesn't mind. Rather, he begins to take note of this new sensation creeping through him - not an unpleasant one, but unusual, intense, invasive. He waits.

Lance leans down, but hesitates midway, his spine rigid, before he straightens up and remarks with a damned calmness, "Good."

When he turns and strides out of the room, Silver's surprise suddenly hits him - not just because of how that situation just turned out, but also because of the queer disappointment resting on the tip of his tongue.

* * *

A/N: apologies if there are a few wrong details - I haven't revisited the Pokemon Adventure comics for a while :) I promise I'll try to update asap


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Massive thanks to reviewers, I hope to make this a three/four part piece, hopefully with a happy ending :)

* * *

He's not a coward. He has never been one to back down in the face of danger. But this is not the face of danger - this is the face of a lost, bitter, yet undeniably beautiful boy. Half of him chastises himself for his hesitation and indecisiveness; the other half berates him for even having such thoughts, towards this vulnerable teenager, towards someone who has already committed himself to another so wholeheartedly and hopelessly.

He stalks over to his private training room, shuts himself in and summons his Dragonite. "Tell me," he says to his most faithful companion, "am I a hopeless romantic?"

The Dragonite tilts his head quizzically, trying to decipher his master's meaning, before giving a small, if uncertain nod. The master's in one of those moods again. Normally, with his usual observant nature, it doesn't take long for the Dragonite to figure out the cause, but analyzing his master's emotions, especially in the face of such a sporadic question, isn't his strong suit. He's not sure what sort of answer Lance might want, but he knows his master's certainly not a romantic. Certainly the very opposite: calculating, methodical, unsentimental.

Lance doesn't comment further, but instead begins to put his Pokemon through a series of exercises. That, under any order circumstances, could easily allow him to disconnect himself from everything else happening around him, to temporary forget about what he might having be worrying about previously. Now, but...he's constantly having to remind himself to focus on the task at hand, and remind himself that this should not be - isn't happening, that he isn't distracted, that he isn't obsessing over some suicidal kid, that the emotion isn't building up into an intense volcano ready to erupt at any moment.

* * *

He can't stand staring at the blank ceiling for much longer.

Having nothing to look at gives his mind the opportunity to wander, and, in all honesty, that's the last thing he wants. He doesn't need his traitorous mind exploring territory he doesn't dare go into. Even less into territory involving Lance - it's not that he has anything against the temperamental champion, he merely doesn't want to start thinking in that direction right now.

He pushes himself out of bed, finding himself dressed in what he assumes are Lance's clothes - somehow that thought made him blush, though only for one brief moment - and notes that the feeling of the cold floor against his bare soles is, while strange, not uncomfortable - perhaps even a welcome change from the warmth of the bedsheets. He patters around, wondering where Lance might be, only to find that he's locked himself in his training room.

Silver's not disappointed. He's not.

He returns to the bedroom and perches on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. He tries to rearrange his thoughts in some semblance of order, but they swim away from him like sleek minnows in a stream, slipping through his fingers, and he can only see them from afar.

* * *

Lance can't help but be a little surprised upon noticing Silver up and in deep contemplation, shoulders hunched over and head hanging. With the window behind him and the colours of the evening filtering in, the boy seems, in a precious moment, to have been turned to gold, then burnished in bronze, before being washed over with a scarlet hue. He's more than beautiful - he's unique, wonderful, exquisite, a work of art, something beyond compare...

He turns away in frustration, closing his eyes and lifting a hand to rub his forehead. Good grief, how - why is he here, in this situation, and why does he think - ? Beauty alone does not make a good - partner, if that word may be used - and, naturally, he is not even thinking of anything like that remotely along those lines, though he must concede that Silver is talented, with vast potential few people have bothered to care about and even fewer have tried to bring to the surface, and possess a quiet strength and determination, with a level of tenacity and perceptiveness some might only envy. Still, there is no reason to become so over-appreciative of him..

He's thinking of searching for something to eat, when Silver suddenly pipes up, "Lance?"

He whips around, more abruptly that he's intended, and tries to keep a tremble out of his voice. "Yes?"

The boy says, unsteadily, "I...well, thank you."

Sparse words, but somehow Lance begins to feel a strange warm sensation rising up from the bottom of his heart. He swallows and nods, with some difficulty, inwardly furiously berating himself for this girlish behaviour. For heaven's sake...

* * *

Silver's not sure what compels him to do so, but he sets his feet firmly on the floor and starts padding towards the older redhead, who watches him in absolute silence, barely moving, until Silver's almost standing toe-to-toe with him.

They're so close that Silver can sense Lance's breathing, can feel the slight warmth emanating from him, can notice the faint tremor of the hard line of his body. His amber eyes are darting everywhere, but not meeting Silver's; his body language can be taken for discomfort, especially with his crossed arms, though he makes no sign that he's intending to move away, or tell Silver to respect his personal space.

Nervously, Silver reaches out a hand to brush Lance's forearm. Neither of them move; Silver's only thought is, _What's he thinking..._

Abruptly Lance unfolds his arms and reaches out to tilt Silver's chin up so their eyes may meet. Silver inhales sharply, tensing, but find that he cannot look away. It feels as though something jagged is unfolding itself inside him, but despite the pain it seems to bring cool relief as it starts to come apart. He's staring into those amber depths that he can't see completely into, that he wants to see into, that are almost frankly open, almost allowing him to see into.

Then Lance leans down and kiss him, and Silver thinks he can see stars.


End file.
